


A Rose By Any Other Name

by chiaroscuroxxi



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/F, Minor Character Death, Period Typical Attitudes, Prostitution, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiaroscuroxxi/pseuds/chiaroscuroxxi
Summary: A take on this very old prompt: Victorian/Edwardian era: After Miranda discovers her husband's extensive porn collection, she goes out in search of a good lay. Andy is either a nice tom or a rent girl who helps Miranda discover the Big O.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 17
Kudos: 189





	A Rose By Any Other Name

**Author's Note:**

> Part one was written in 2011 from the TDWP LJ page. It has been slightly edited and re-posted here.

**A townhome overlooking Hyde Park, London 1865, a late Monday afternoon**

For a short sharp minute she wished she was back in the countryside recovering from an ‘uneasy childbirth’ as the kinder of gossipers of her social circle whispered. That tragic event was three years behind her and she had come back to London to put the memory of two impossibly small coffins being lowered into the ground, the debilitating depression that followed, and the rumors of her husband’s indiscretions that reached all the way to her estate in Lincolnshire to rest.

That, however, was a hard thing to do when the high society circle she had once been queen bee of either gossiped in poorly concealed whispers or fluttered around her with pity in their eyes.

Storming home after one such event, she wrenched the fashionable hat off her head, upsetting the perfected coiled and pinned locks of white hair. Catching sight of a curl falling over her eye, she was seized with a sudden urge to chop it all off. Another visible sign of her failure, with the death of her children her already pale blond hair had turned a startling silver seemingly overnight. That, and the extra inch to her waist that even the tightest corset could not hide had her convinced of the reason why her husband no longer visited her bed at night.

Not that had been a pleasant experience to begin with. The heavy, sweating body pressing her into the mattress, the ugly, animalistic grunting, and sharp pain and abrasive rubbing between her legs each time he thrust, thoroughly disgusted her.

The sound of the front door coupled with the click of walking sticks and the laughing voices of men echoing in the marble foyer brought her back to herself. Fixing her hair with quick efficient twists, she made her way to the top of the stairs and looked down on the gentlemen milling about her front hall.

“Stephen, darling. Will you be home for dinner?”

A few of the men murmured polite hellos. One of the men looked up midst fixing his top hat. “I should think not,” he replied shortly.

Another man whispered something, she thankfully could not hear, but the raucous laughter the comment inspired from the group brought a blush to her cheeks anyways. Still laughing, her husband made his way out, his cohorts right behind.

Again anger swept through her at the rudeness of the men and her grip on the banister tightened until her knuckles were white. “Are you alright Lady Miranda?” the concerned voice of her maid came from behind her.

“Yes. Fine. Close the drapes and turn down the bed. I will be retiring early,” she replied curtly.

“Shall I bring you dinner upstairs?”

“No. I have lost my appetite. I do not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening.”

The girl rushed off to quickly finish. It was rare that she got such an early evening herself. Ever since arriving in London, the Lady had been demanding and cold. Nothing like when it was just Master Stephen who would smile at her and tip her generously and spontaneously. Well worth the slaps on the butt and ‘accidental’ gropings. Finished with the orders, she gave a quick curtsy to the Lady who was strangely still standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at the cracked door of the study. Taking the vague wave of a hand as a dismissal and thinking nothing more of it, she rushed off to the market. If she hurried she could get to the butcher shop before it closed and maybe the butcher’s handsome son will offer to walk her home.

Miranda was transfixed. Never had she been in her husband’s study, always accepting it as the man’s domain just as the parlor across the hall was hers. But now, filled with a burning curiosity and slight vengeful wrath, the cracked door was a clear invitation.

Skirts in hand, she made her way downstairs and gently pushed at the door. It swung open obligingly and the gas lamps from the hall cast light on the heavy wooden bookcase and leather studded armchairs. That part of the room looked untouched except for a dusting cloth. Rather it was the dark, ornately carved desk which caught her attention. The clutter of papers came as no surprise. As a member of the House of Lords as well as a successful business man with interests in the Orient, Stephen was no slouch when it came to finances.

Settling herself behind the desk, Miranda shifted aside accounting sheets. Looking for anything that might curtail her philandering husband and the damage to her reputation. A locked drawer to the bottom right caught her eye. She jiggled the handle once but it was clear a key was needed. Knowing her husband as she did, Miranda knew that Stephen was too lazy to hide the key far away. Scanning the bookshelf, she looked for a pot or snuffbox that could possibly hold the key. Her eye lit on a book that had crease marks stretching along its binding. In fact it was the book that looked like it had been read. The latin title told her nothing but spurred her curiosity on. Pulling the tome off the shelf, the weight of it surprised her. Cardboard covered in tooled leather. The book was hollow and within rested the key she suspected was the exact one she was looking for.

It was.

A jumble of papers, pamphlets, and photographs were stuffed inside. They were obviously important to Stephen judging by the earmarked, worn and stained edges.

Gingerly Miranda grasped a folder of photographs and papers. Laying it on the desk, she stared at it, heart pounding. She knew she had hit on what she was looking for. A deep breath and she flipped it open.

Miranda couldn’t stop the gasp from escaping. The top photograph showed two women and a man but not in any position that is commonly seen gracing the mantles in sitting rooms of high London society. She knew she should look away, scream, or faint as any “proper” woman of her stature should, but instead she stared in horrified fascination.

Reclining on a divan one of the women reached for the erect penis of the man standing near her head. That, however, was not what held her attention although the penis was much larger than her husband’s. Rather Miranda’s eyes followed the taunt lines of the woman’s neck, her head thrown back in rapture, down past full breasts to the dark hair of the other woman’s head buried between her widely spread legs.

Miranda licked suddenly dry lips and vaguely wondered why her skin left tight and sensitive. As she studied the picture she thought about how it would feel to be that naked in the company of another – her husband had only ever pushed up her nightgown or pulled down her neckline. She wondered how it would feel to have another woman between her legs. The bolt of heat and rush of wetness that accompanied the taboo thought startled her. Quickly she jerked, trying to close the folder and escape the wicked photograph and instead succeeded in spilling the folder across the desk. Black and white photos and drawings flashed before her eyes. Men and women nude and doing various things to one another that Miranda could never had imagined. They were mainly two women servicing a man and if Miranda were thinking more clearly she could’ve guessed Stephen’s fantasy. But she could not tear her eyes away from the few pictures of two women kissing and caressing each other. She didn’t understand the burning in her chest or the growing ache between her legs.

With trembling hands she quickly gathered up the scattered pictures and shoved them back in the folder, thoughts of revenge against her husband forgotten in her desperation to get away from the images surely burned onto her mind’s eye.

Slamming the drawer shut and taking deep breaths to calm her racing heart, a slip of paper caught her eye. It must have fluttered free and now lay face down on the thick rug. Miranda picked it up and willed herself not to look.

She looked.

This sketch was nothing so sordid as the others. And it captivated Miranda in a way that the more graphic depictions did not. The simple lines of a sheet hinted at a full bodied figure and languid arms stretched above her head suggested a welcome reception for the viewer. Despite the tempting position and teasing sheet, it was the eyes that drew Miranda in. From the dark graphite, she knew they were brown, and they reflected the prefect amount of sincere companionship and sinful lust.

Miranda was lost. She didn’t replace the drawing but carefully folded it and tucked in her bodice before fleeing upstairs, slamming her door as if to block out the tantalizing images of women that were racing through her mind. All of them had the large dark eyes of woman in her stolen picture.

**Somewhere south of the river, London 1865, a late Monday afternoon**

Andy blinked her large brown eyes and twisted her neck from side to side to loosen the stiffness that had set in. While she had gotten over her modesty a long time ago, she still pulled up the sheet that had been artfully draped across her hips up over her shoulders. Holding it together in front of her generous breasts she moved across the room to peer around the large canvas.

“That was three hours. We agreed,” she informed the man hunched over the canvas.

“Hmmm?” he looked up absently and appeared to be surprised to see his model had moved.

“Three hours,” she reminded him to stop the thunderclouds brewing on his face.

He nodded, “I, ah, lost track of the time once again. But the sunlight was in the perfect position and I had to capture it!” Andy took in the blocked in background and the figure – her figure – emerging from the basic colors as a warm fleshy Venus rendered in painstaking oils.

“Maybe you should look into the techniques those French painters are trying. Quick brushstrokes and fast impressions of what they see. That way you can capture the sunlight in time,” she suggested.

“Bah!” he waved a hand at her, “The French have no idea what they are doing! This is the way painting is supposed to be!” he gestured to his painting. “This is the way they have been doing it since the time of the old masters of the Renaissance!”

Andy shrugged and moved over to her neat pile of clothes leaving the artist to his canvas muttering under his breath about the radical impressionists in France. It wasn’t exactly the life she wanted; modeling for temperamental artists by day and “entertaining” the wealthier ones by night in a local saloon, but it was closer to her dream of being a painter herself than being a rent girl ever was. She laced up her corset in quick efficient movements of someone who was used to doing things without a maid or any sort of help. The dress she pulled over her head was much lower cut than conventional fashion dictated, but it was appropriate where she was going.

“William. William!” she tried to get the artist’s attention.

“Hmm?”

“My payment?” she demanded, one hand on her hip the other outstretched in a saucy gesture.

“Oh yes. In the tea pot there,” he pointed to a heap of props on top of which a delicate looking pot was perched. Looking inside was a few crumpled notes. Snatching them up and stuffing them down her bodice, Andy hurried to leave before the artist got another “brilliant” idea in his head and need her, as his “muse” to express it. She had almost made it out the door when,

“Andy? Andrea? Could you come back here dear?”

Groaning she returned to the studio. Rather than hidden behind his canvas, he was standing next to it, wringing his hands in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “I have a favor to ask,” he began. Andy opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop her. “I know, I know you need compensation. And if I sell my next painting, I can up your pay and pay for your time for this favor. But to sell this painting I need your help.”

“And what is this favor exactly?”

“My patron has generously offered to show off some of my latest work. Some of the wealthiest men in London and their wives will be there. I’m talking about cream of the crop. I want you to come with me.”

“Why me? And besides I have nothing to wear that lot will find acceptable.”

“You are my muse!” he cried, “with your beauty and wits, you will be sure to charm the lot of them into buying my work. And I will buy you a dress. You can then wear it for my next painting.”

“I usually wear nothing in your paintings,” Andy pointed out wryly.

“This could be the turning point in my career,” he pleaded. Andy pursed her lips. Another night when she could be working in the saloon lost. However, if she caught the eye of one of these wealthy gentlemen, he might take her as a mistress and perhaps with his financial backing she could focus more on her own art. “Very well. But only for 15% more than my usual hourly pay.”

“A deal,” they shook hands. “Thursday night. Be here by 5 o’clock. We’ll transform you into a rose of English society.”

**A townhome overlooking Hyde Park, London 1845, a Thursday evening**

Miranda hadn’t left the house in three days. She was sure when she declined yet another invitation to tea that morning the gossipers were whispering that her depression had returned in full force. She couldn’t bring herself to care. Those images and the ones her mind had started to create on its own consumed her. She slept restlessly if she slept at all. Normally the dark circles growing around her eyes would infuriate her, who was so meticulous in looks and dress, but now she was more concerned with the growing ache between her thighs.

The second night she was brave enough to ease her hand under her nightgown, press underneath her chemise to graze her fingertips along the outer edge of her swollen folds. The wetness and the heat surprised her and the tingles her touch left in its wake had her biting her lip to stifle a moan. She withdrew her hand and resolved not to touch herself like that again. Whatever was happening to her body was strange and unnatural and if she ignored it, it would eventually go away.

“Miranda.”

Miranda dropped her tea cup. For a long moment both husband and wife stared at the shattered porcelain until the maid bustled in, drawn by the crash, to clean up the mess.

“Do not sneak up on me Stephen,” Miranda ordered sharply.

“Forgive me dear,” he sneered, “But you were once again lost in your own world. Next time I suppose I’ll just have to slap you across the face to bring you back.”

“You will not touch me,” Miranda hissed.

Shrugging negligently, Stephen tossed his riding gloves on the table and sprawled in the chair across. “This has gone on long enough Miranda. I don’t know what has you in such a snit these past few days but it stops tonight. People are starting to talk. So tonight you are going to go upstairs and put on that new dress I know you wasted my money on and like a good little wife, you will accompany me to a party.”

“No.”

In a sudden rage, Stephen was towering over her, his face slowly turning red, “You will do as you are told! Or else I will send you back to the country manor and tell everyone my poor dear wife has had a relapse and the prognosis isn’t good. Besides,” he continued in a more pleasant manner, “the Duke of Warwick is throwing the party for an artist or some such nonsense and I know how much you love beautiful things. You will enjoy yourself.” He reached out to pet a curl behind her ear and Miranda held still, slightly trembling in a mix of fear and rage.

“Now go,” he ordered, pulling her up from her chair, “we leave at seven and not a minute after.”

**A Mayfair townhouse, London 1865, a Thursday night or Friday morning**

Andy’s face hurt. The fake simpering smile that had been plastered on all night was beginning to slip and if she didn’t get a breather soon, then she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. “Gentlemen please,” she spoke with a flirtatious smile, “I am afraid you have talked the powder off my nose and I simply must go refresh it.” With some batting of her eyelashes, she was finally free of the circle of men who had enclosed her most of the night. Unfortunately for William, they all were more interested in looking down the dress of his “muse” then at his art on the walls.

As Andy tried to escape the banquet hall, her eye caught sight of a woman. She stopped, be spelled. Never had she seen anyone look so regal and elegant, not even the queen. The steel colored gown only enhanced the creamy shoulders and elegant throat. A wispy silk wrap caught low on her elbows and added an ethereal shimmer. Her stunning white hair was piled in curls, reminiscent of French aristocracy which gave her a timeless look only enhanced by her porcelain skin.

Andy had to get away before she did something stupid like go over there and talk to the woman. Before she could flee, the woman turned and for a heartbeat their eyes met through the throngs of partygoers. Her crystal blue eyes burned into Andy and she suddenly felt ashamed, she was the pretender here and this woman’s class, not to mention the look of mild distain on the classical features, only served to drive the point home. Still the woman held her eyes a moment too long to be dismissive and that gave Andy pause. Could she be so daring as to talk to the woman? Perhaps she was as bored of the mindless drivel and perceptions of image these socialites clung too as well? Andy snorted to herself at the thought of finding a compatriot in someone so far out of her circle she might as well be orbiting the moon. Yet she was intrigued. So with a flash of smile and a flirtatious tilt of her head, she invited the woman to join her on her great escape. If the woman joined her or not would be very telling of her character.

**A Mayfair townhouse, London 1865, a Thursday night or Friday morning**

Miranda tried not to sigh too loudly into her champagne. She knew she looked stunning and it went a long way to distill the whispers. The tighter silhouette of her gown stood out among the larger hoop skirts of her peers and she knew the style would be quickly copied. They may be gossiping about her but everyone still wanted to be her. An unfortunate side effect of her trendsetting also brought the insipid syncopates flocking to her side, eager to declare their friendship and win her favor. Quite pathetic really. One of the louder ones was currently at her side, spilling gossip into a deaf ear. At least it wasn’t about her this time.

“Can you believe that he brought his mistress,” the odious woman’s voice dropped to a stage whisper. Miranda rolled her eyes at both the lack of discretion and lack of fashion sense. The corset did nothing to shape the stout figure and the asparagus green silk was nothing but an eyesore.

“Mistress?” Miranda murmured, when the woman turned to her expectantly.

“Oh yes. This artist the Duke is sponsoring. He is so high on his horse, he dressed up his whore and brought her with him.” She gestured with her tasseled fan at an opening that appeared in a group of gentlemen. From it a young woman in pale yellow silk emerged, laughing over her shoulder at something one of the men called to her. Thick brown curls were half upswept and the rest cascaded down her back in a pretty contrast to her dress and pale skin. Her shoulders and neck were enticingly bare.

Miranda narrowed her eyes. There was something familiar about this woman. Through the crowd, she only caught glimpses. Clutching her flute tighter, she willed the woman to turn around, walk her way, anything. The desperation welling in her belly froze her in place and at the same time urged her to move. Closer or further away she couldn’t say.

Then at the doorway the dark haired woman paused. By divine intervention or what Miranda couldn’t say. But for some reason, the woman turned and across the room their eyes met. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Those were the same brown eyes that had haunted her these nights past. Miranda did not know how it was possible; her dream woman, her fantasy she didn’t even know she had, was alive. She struggled to keep her expression neutral but the other woman’s eyes widened a fraction and Miranda felt as if she could feel her want from across the room. A flash of a smile that had Miranda’s knees trembling and she was compelled to follow up on the subtle invitation to escape the heavy mantel of high society that lay thick over the room if only for a short while.

“You must excuse me,” Miranda said abruptly, cutting through whatever defamation her unwelcome companion had been oozing. She thrust her now empty champagne flute at a surprised servant and began to cut through the crowd, hoping the cold set of her face would warn off any others attempting social niceties. Reaching the doorway her mystery woman had disappeared through, there was no sign of her down the long corridor lined with high French windows offset between classical Corinthian columns. The few guests who lingered there paid her no mind, so caught up they were in their own trysts in shadowy alcoves. She reached the end only to find a set of delicate looking doors locked against the chill of a November night.

“You belong in the ballroom Lady, not hidden in the shadows of this hallway,” a voice purred behind her.

Startled, Miranda twisted around and fell back against the doors, a hand pressed to her breast. Slowly she looked up to meet the eyes of the woman she was so desperate to meet. “Who are you?” she asked in a whisper so low, her companion had to strain to hear it.

The dark eyed woman, eyes made darker by the shadows, threw her head back and laughed. The sound sent shivers down Miranda’s spine. “No one you should want to meet,” she assured her.

For a long time they looked at one another, assessing, until the younger one sigh and turned to leave.

“No!” Miranda cried, her voice a tad too loud for the quiet hallway. She reached out and grabbed the woman by the wrist, her fingers stroking the inside of it in an inadvertent caress.

They both gasped.

Miranda didn’t know how, but suddenly the other woman was closer, so close as to feel the heat of her body mere inches away from her own. Involuntarily her eyelids fell, half lidded, her face tilted up and her lips parted in invitation.

The other woman leaned in closer. “No. Not here,” her breath ghosted across Miranda’s lips. And she was helpless to do anything more than shudder and nod.

Andy grinned into the darkness as she pulled the silver haired woman along. This was an unexpected turn. The woman had seemed such a lioness, standing proud in the bright lights of the ballroom but out here in the grainy darkness she was a kitten, quietly whimpering her desires. She liked it.

Andy was sure the woman was confused. Brought up in such a rigid society, she probably had no idea the things one woman could do to another. Heck, she doubted even her husband knew how to bring her pleasure. Andy had been with some of those men before, she could sympathize. Which was why she had sometimes turned to the company of another woman, the warm affection and mutual understanding and giving was something she had found in no man. While Andy had never been with a high born lady such as the one she tugged in her wake, there was no doubt that tonight was going to the best experience yet for the both of them.

A bed would be ideal and Andy was sure there were plenty in the luxurious townhouse, but she knew the dangers of being caught had far more consequences for this lady than a man being caught with a prostitute who had no reputation to lose. But the library was almost always deserted during parties like this one and there were enough cozy little alcoves for private reading or other pleasures to take place.

Pushing open one of the ornately carved doors, the room was nearly pitch black. No matter their eyes would adjust soon enough. A crack in the heavy drapes let in just enough moonlight for Andy to see the flash of blue eyes, heavy with unspoken desire.

Sudden longing filled her. “I have to kiss you now,” she whispered, “but first tell me your name.”

Miranda had never wanted something so badly in her life. Her limbs felt heavy and the blood seemed to quicken in her veins. A sensual murmur surrounded her and it took her a long moment to realize the woman was speaking.

Licking parched lips she managed to reply in a husky rasp, “Miranda.”

“Miranda,” Andy whispered back at her, pulling her closer to her body and deeper into the darkness.

Miranda trembled and clung hard to her shoulders left bare by the cut of her gown as impossibly soft lips brushed once, twice over her own. A gasp escaped her and it was enough to spur Andy on. Roughly she jerked Miranda to her and crashed their lips together, immediately plundering her mouth with her tongue. Miranda was overwhelmed by sensation. The hot wet heat of their mouth fused together, the soft swells of the other woman’s breasts pushing tantalizing against her own, the tingles her hands left behind as the roved her body.

Andy tore her mouth away when the need to breath became a necessity only to move back in right away, unable to resist nipping and kissing the elegant throat that was bared to her. “Miranda,” she husked between kisses, “You deserve so much more than this. But I cannot slow down.” Andy, as experienced as she was, had never felt this kind of desperate need to have a woman, to possess her completely before. She palmed a breast, feeling the press of a harden nipple in her palm even through the layers of silk and lace. Miranda moaned softly and arched harder into her hand.

Andy felt wild and out of control. She pushed Miranda back into an armchair and began gathering up handfuls of her dress, not caring that she was wrinkling expensive silk. Miranda, for her part, was glad she stayed on top of the fashion trends because it meant fewer petticoats to get in the way.

Finally the layers of fabric were bunched up out of the way, and Miranda should’ve felt exposed, but all she felt was a deep ache. She couldn’t stop the gasp when the other woman dropped to her knees before her and leaned in, trailing her tongue up Miranda’s inner thigh. She couldn’t stop her actions as she dug her finger into luxuriant dark hair and pulled her closer. Andy gently nosed at the salt and pepper curls that glistened in the faint light. Already Miranda’s hips were slowly rocking.

She began lapping at the wetness and fingers tightened in her hair. Taking it as a signal, she pressed her tongue harder into the swollen folds and brought one hand up to rub against the little nub peaking out.

Miranda wanted to close her eyes against the waves of foreign pleasure rushing through her but could not tear her sight from the dark head between her pale legs. The shock of fingers touching her sent lightning bolts through her system and her toes curled in their silk slippers. Her body began to tremble harder and Miranda did throw her head back with a moan as ecstatic release filled her.

Andy grinned against the rush of wetness against her chin and slowly stroked her as she relaxed in degrees. Finally Miranda slumped bonelessly off the chair into Andy’s arms. She petted her, cooing in her ear as she felt a tear drip on to her collarbone. “Don’t cry darling,” Andy murmured, “That was wonderful.” She brushed the tears away and rearranged her skirts down over her legs.

Every nerve in Miranda was buzzing and she has no desire to move from the warm haven of the other woman’s arms. “I didn’t know,” she whispered softly.

“Oh honey, it’s okay,” Andy reassured her.

A long moment of peaceful silence before Andy pulled them both up off the floor. “We must be getting back,” she said when Miranda whimpered her protest.

Outside, under the golden glow of a lamp, Andy fussed with Miranda’s hair and dress until all signs of their tryst were gone.

“Will I see you again?” Miranda asked, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Andrea,” came the reply as she was led to back to the bright hall and the grating, loud voices that filled it. “And I think it best if you stay in your circle and I stay in mine,” she said with a sad smile, “Society will not have it any other way.” And then she was gone, caught up once again in the whirlwind of her gentlemen “admirers”.

Yet despite her parting words, Miranda knew she would have to see Andrea again. The painful longing in her heart would not let her forget the young woman anytime soon. Nor would she forget the ecstasy and pure happiness she had found for a few moments in Andrea’s arms. A fresh bolt of heat filled her at the thought of kneeling between Andrea’s legs and returning the favor. The girl had awoken something within her and for the first time in her life, Miranda was not going to let proper society dictate what she can and cannot have.


End file.
